


5 Pretty Young Things That Agron Will Never Tell Nasir About

by betterrecieved



Category: Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrecieved/pseuds/betterrecieved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet.  See title. Unbeta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Pretty Young Things That Agron Will Never Tell Nasir About

Eighteen and filled out abruptly into impressive manhood, Agron is respected warrior.   He turns heads with his big hand, kisses the lips of panting, eager boys who moan his name.  
  
He has several boys, for several purposes:  
  
1\. Sweet-faced one with flashing blue eyes who throws pouting tantrums when Agron must leave him to fight Romans pressing against border of Germania.  
  
“You must choose war or me!”

Agron chooses to fuck Flashing Eyes one last time before he chooses war.  
  
2\. Prettiest one of them all, who will not suck his cock, or let him fuck, or do anything except kiss and walk around their villiage holding his hand.  
  
When Agron is in the mood for showing off to village and kissing for hours and hours, he chooses Pretty.  
  
3\. Violent one with snarling upper lip.  Always wanting to know where Agron has been, who he has been with. Throwing candles, brushes, mirrors, anything within his reach at Agron’s head. Agron sinks his cock into Violent and changes accusations into scratches and moans.

Duro loses count, and wonders how Agron keeps them all. 

“I do not _keep_ them,” Agron laughs.  “I throw them back in when I am done.”

Duro is only sixteen, still brushed broadly with humorous traces of awkwardness, his feet and hands jerking out of his control at times.   
  
As they walk down road to their village, large-busted, delicate-featured woman turns to flutter eyelashes at Agron.  He recoils as if bitten.  
  
“Your virtue is yet safe, m’lady,” Duro remarks.  
*  
When Agron is twenty, he falls in love.  The boy’s name is Severus, his manner is as sweet as his name is stern, and he has just come of age to be courted.  Many men have asked, but only Agron has been blushingly accepted while Severus’ father looks gloweringly on.  
  
They confess to each other impossible ideas of future bliss: Agron shall soon be promoted to General, and Severus as his beloved will travel by his side.  
  
Fantasies are soon disrupted by encroaching reality.  
  
“Make promise that you will wait for my return from battle, and I will see your future secured.”  
  
Agron stands hulking over Severus, whose golden head barely reaches his shoulder.  
  
“Yes,” whispers Severus. “But Agron…”  
  
Agron cups his sweet face. “What is it?”  
  
“Hurry back to me?”  
  
“My feet shall fucking fly.”  
  
Four months later, he and Duro return from battle filthy and triumphant with Roman blood, bearing trunk full of Roman loot between them.  
  
Surviving warriors strut through through village to acclaim from all who meet them.  Agron brightens as he sights Severus’ mother standing before him.  
  
“I have returned with Roman treasures to claim Severus’ hand,” Agron tells her.  “Where is my intended?”  
  
And Agron drops trunk onto Duro’s feet, stunned when he learns that Severus has disgraced his village and his father’s good name by running off in company of fucking _Gaul_.  
*  
Agron is twenty-six and bitter.  He brings cup of watered wine to violent little slave boy with flashing brown eyes, hoping for a fuck before useless new recruit falls to Roman sword.  

“You press fortune glaring so at the slayer of Theokoles,” Agron remarks.

“His victory but proves that even giants fall,” says boy flatly.

Agron cannot help but laugh at this quick little wild thing who hardly spares him a glance.  “What name do you go by, little man? So I may properly mourn your passing.”

“I am called Tiberius.”

Agron appraises foreign-featured face before him. “Tiberius? You are far too dark to have such a fair Roman name.”

“I am more Roman than Syrian,” says Tiberius, sounding offended.

Agron tells him of treacherous Syrian at Batiatus’ ludus, watching his face.  But Tiberius gives away nothing, only recalls a brother in Syria when asked of his family. 

“I too had a brother,” Agron tells him. 

“No longer?”

“He was struck down by the Romans,” Agron tells him.  And before his eyes the moment of Duro’s death repeats and repeats.

Tiberius’ tone turns insinuating, nasty. “When you turned swords against them?”

"As you will someday, if you hold any fucking sense."  And Agron does not care how pretty Tiberius is, he longs to slap him from his perch and save him the fucking trouble of being killed in battle.

*

Agron does not have to tell Nasir anything when he is thirty and standing upon crest of rough mountain path, holding Nasir to him as they gaze down on endless darkening vista of freedom.

Nasir already knows.


End file.
